The Road to Damnation
by Basilisk9466
Summary: In an Imperium constantly under threat, seeing the world in black and white can be a necessity. Those who are grey are cast out...
1. Chapter 1

_You think that life is so simple. I can see it in your eyes. Black and white, with a definite line between purity and heresy, chaos and Imperium, right and wrong. I think that I'm living proof that that's wrong. That there's no such thing as black or white. There's only grey. _

_My name is Arael Verekan. The 'Twilight Guardian'. _

_Let me shake your beliefs a little… _

* * *

The bolt exploded against the doorframe, and the blast sent Tobias Arjak sprawling to the floor. 

_This was getting out of hand. Bolters?_

He crawled towards the other entrance to the room, hoping that the cultists didn't come in before he made his escape good. A lasrifle wasn't much good against carapace armour.

He reached out a hand to open the door, and stopped as it opened of its own accord.

Standing in the doorway was one of the so-called Methalans, the elites of the cult. Both hands had been cut off at the wrists, and the ragged flesh was still visible around the massive chainblades that had been implanted in one socket and the grapple in the other. Tattoos and mutilations covered its form so that it was impossible to tell age or gender.

With a whimper, Tobias unloaded the lasrifle at the monster. It stood there, a wide, fanged grin on its face.

"You show spirit, loyalist," it said. The words were distorted, as though the speaker was not used to using them. With a slashing motion, the chain-hand smashed the lasrifle in two and the grapple snatched the Arbites officer from the ground. "You will make a worthy sacrifice."

The streets of the Hive city went by in a blur. Tobias only caught fleeting glimpses of all the landmarks that he'd grown up with as the Methalan dragged him along.

And then it stopped. Tobias caught a brief glimpse of what lay before them before he was thrown to the ground.

It was the amphitheatre. Sevren was a somewhat traditional Hive City, still keeping hold of its roots as a feudal world. Tall, imposing columns surrounded the shallow basin in the regular surface of the road. A small podium form where the ecclesiarchy often preached was given centre stage. Although a dome rose over it, it still felt like an open-air building. A place to meet and remember the joys of life.

And now a place of heresy and blasphemy. The Sons of Methalas had seen to that. More of the Methalans were scattered around the edges, while assorted less mutilated cultists wielding stubbers, lasrifles and one or two bolters moved with purpose.

Around twenty citizens lay chained to the podium, cuts and bruises a testament to the cultists' violent capture of them.

The podium held two figures. One Tobias recognised instantly; the leader of the cult. No-one knew his name; the Arbites had nicknamed him Vortex for his eyes. The pupils seemed to revolve, and if you stared at them for too long, you found yourself hypnotised. A massive, heavily muscled figure wielding a chainaxe in one skeletal bionic arm and a stub-pistol with a huge barrel in the other, he held the rest of the cult in awe.

Apart from his companion. He was a short figure with ugly, Chaotic tattoos all over the visible flesh, his eyes were completely blank. Evil seemed to radiate off him.

"Another for the sacrifice, master," Tobias' capturer growled.

Vortex turned and smiled, revealing pointed, uneven teeth. "Fine work. But we need more. MORE!" The chainaxe revved uncontrollably, and then fell still.

"As you wish, master." The brute left, and a stunted cultist with a shotgun moved forward, prodding Tobias into the amphitheatre main. He obeyed. There didn't seem any point in tempting fate.

A part of him screamed that it was his duty, as an Arbites of the Imperium, as a servant of the Emperor, to fight against this filth. To die, if necessary, to deny the heretics of their prize.

Another, stronger one repeated an old saying. _Where there's life there's hope._ He didn't know where it came from. It certainly wasn't said much.

His inner battle was interrupted by the unmistakeable squawk of a vox.

Vortex gestured to a mutant with a third arm in his chest, who flicked on a bulky vox-set. "Speak," the cult leader said.

"Master, we're being killed!" The voice was static-ridden; the vox was clearly an old one, worn from over-use. "I've lost five men – they just vanish, and a few minutes later we find them ripped open by something!"

Vortex mused this for a moment. "One moment." He turned to the vacant-eyed man. "Do you sense anything?"

The other shook his head. "Whatever is out there is not easily picked out. A soldier of the false Emperor who grasps tactics. A death-cultist who has only just got their equipment together. Something inconspicuous. Nothing powerful could escape my notice." The words were spoken with a horrible rasp.

"Stick together. Whatever it is, I want it alive," Vortex said into the vox.

There was only static.

"Confirm!" he barked.

Nothing.

"Ahhh…" the blank-eyed man said. "I feel the souls being released. They are being picked off one by one…"

Vortex spun, and Tobias caught a glimmer of fear in the leader's eyes. "That one!" Vortex snarled, pointing at Tobias. "He shows disrespect. Make him bow his head!"

The Arbites felt a flail slam against his back, agonising even through the flak armour. He hastily ducked down.

"I want everyone to return to the temple!" Vortex roared into the vox. "If someone wants to hunt us, they will have to come to us!"

Cultists began to swarm into the amphitheatre. Weapons were readied and aimed out at the streets. With a grinding, an ancient mechanism closed up all but one of the entrances to the dome; a relic from a long-forgotten swarm of Ork attacks. Dimly, Tobias was amazed that only thirty or so me had brought Sevren to its knees.

And then there was absolute stillness.

A pin could have been heard dropping to the ground.

Then, with a metallic clatter, a small sphere fell through the entrance into the midst of the cultists.

In much the same way that in an earlier age, the growl of a big cat might cause people to hide, the sight of a small object in sinister circumstances was enough to cause any child of the forty-first millennium to run for cover.

With an ear-splitting shriek and a blinding flash of light, the concussion grenade went off. Those nearest to it fell to the ground, stunned. Those further away stumbled, blind and deafened.

As Tobias' vision slowly returned, he saw a dark, helmeted figure walk through the entrance. It raised its hands, and arcs of power lanced out into the dazed cultists nearest it. Screams of pain replaced groans as they were wreathed in the energies of the Warp.

The Methalans were the first to recover. Crude weapons raised, they charged their assailant.

Tobias missed what happened over the next thirty seconds; it happened too fast for his dazed senses to make sense of it. At the end of it, the figure stood in the midst of the bloody and torn corpses.

Other cultists began to wake up, and each was either cut down or neatly shot with laspistol blasts.

The amphitheatre was stained red with the blood of heretics.

In the midst of the chaos, Vortex and Blank-eyes had not moved; Vortex due to shocked amazement, Blank-eyes from what looked for all the world like fear.

And then, once again, there was stillness. The figure stood in a combat pose, strangely long fingers stretched out, red staining the jet-black armour. The last two survivors of the cult standing in the podium.

"Who are you?" breathed Vortex.

"Your death," came the reply. It was cold, monotonic from synthesisers in the helmet.

"Verekan," Blank-eyes said softly. "I wondered if you had survived."

The figure cocked its… _her_ head, for Tobias realised that it was a she. "Myradial? Something of a comedown, a mere Daemonhost in a washed-up cult. Didn't Klorgrind protect you from this fate?"

Myradial shook his head contemptuously. "Klorgrind is nothing. He was weak, the fact that you defeated him showed me that. I serve Methalas now. The blood of this city could have brought him into existence!"

"It could have," 'Verekan' replied in a non-committal tone. "We shall never know, shall we? Both you and your cultist friend die here."

"I think not," Vortex said. He tossed the stub pistol aside, and charged, chainaxe screaming.

Verekan dodged the charge easily, fingers flicking out. Five long cuts tore themselves in Vortex's chest, and he stumbled before smashing aside another attack with the back of the axe.

More details came to Tobias. They weren't fingers, they were claws…

The chainaxe arced through the air again. This time, his opponent met the attack directly, one set of claws meeting the axe in a shower of sparks, the other plunging forwards.

They sank into the throat. Vortex froze, coughed, and then fell, blood spraying from his lips as he tried to breathe through a severed, choked windpipe.

"One down," Verekan said evenly. "Your turn, Myradial. What's it to be?"

Myradial stood there for a moment, and then rose into the air. The brown robes exploded into flame and fell away from his body, turned to ashes in an instant. Massive blades sprouted to replace hands, and the tattoos crackled with power.

"Blades?" asked Verekan.

"I've been experimenting," the Daemonhost replied, and charged.

Metal shrieked on metal as blade met claw. The combatants only met for an instant before spinning away and slashing again. They moved fast, so fast, that they were blurs to Tobias.

He rose to his feet, and realised that in the confusion, he had not been chained down like the other prisoners. He moved towards the burnt corpses of the cultists, whispering encouragement to the others, telling them that it was nearly over…

_And it is. One way or the other…_

There! A bolter. He picked it up, surprised at the weight of the weapon, and checked the ammunition.

A change. He spun, and saw Verekan stumbling back, a gash in her side. Myradial reared up with a triumphant screech, ready to strike the deathblow.

Tobias fired. The bolter bucked in his hand, and only one shot spat from the barrel before the weapon tore itself from his hand.

The bolt exploded against Myradial's side. The Daemonhost was thrown against the wall, and the slash missed.

Tobias scrabbled for the weapon as the enraged creature spun to look at him.

It looked down, surprised, at the ten talons embedded in its flesh.

"Attention span was never one of your strong points," snarled Verekan.

Myradial opened his mouth to say something, and then screamed. He seemed to catch fire from the inside out, light streaming out from within. Sudden instinct made Tobias shield his eyes.

There was a flash of light, a final shriek that was almost tangible, and Myradial vanished.

Verekan abruptly sagged, as though immensely weary. She moved to the podium, and slashed through the chains. Whatever the claws were made of, they were sharp.

"There won't be any more of them," she said. The citizens slowly got to their feet, eyes not quite believing that the ordeal was over. Words of gratitude spilled out, but she waved them aside before moving through the crowd to the entrance.

Tobias was standing there.

"Thank you," he said.

Verekan looked at him. The helmet was angled towards the centre, with small carvings that produced the effect of a skull. Red light glowed gently in the narrow eyeslits. He remembered seeing a parade of Space Marines in his youth, and was reminded of one of the black-armoured figures in the lead. "Good shot," she said. The synthesiser made the words monotonic, but he sensed that they would be little different without it.

"You're injured," he said, gesturing at the gash. "Come to the Arbites headquarters, we can sort it out easily. The least we can do, after what you did here."

"No. You don't want to know me, Arbites. Some things are better left alone. I'll manage alone. I always have."

"You wouldn't have if I hadn't shot that thing just now."

The eyes bored into him. "Sometimes we win, sometimes we don't. Fate cast you in that role, and I am grateful for it. Now stand aside."

"At least let me help you to wherever you're going," said Tobias.

"I. Don't. Need. Help," Verekan ground out. She stumbled slightly.

"Sure you don't," said Tobias in mild amusement.

She gave up. "Third level. You leave when I say so. Don't say I didn't warn you."

They moved off. Behind them, other Arbites ex-prisoners helped their fellow citizens out of the amphitheatre. All would be held at the Arbites headquarters until the Inquisition arrived.

"What's your name?" asked Tobias after a while.

"Another detail that you don't want to know," came the monotonic reply.

He smiled. "You clearly know nothing about Sevrenians. Curiosity is our strongest attribute."

She didn't respond.

"Well, let's see… I know that one of your names is Verekan. Have I heard of any Verekans who can dispatch an entire cult with such flair?"

He thought hard. Verekan. The name was familiar, now he thought about it.

"I am the Twilight Guardian," Verekan said, breaking his train of thought. "That is all you need know."

"Why Twilight?" The title somehow disturbed him.

"I walk the path between light and dark, and belong in neither."

With that simple description, her name blazed itself in white fire across Tobias' eyes. "_Arael_ Verekan?"

She tensed, dropping slightly into a combat pose. It was all the reply he needed.

"You're the most wanted heretic in the sector," Tobias breathed.

"Not through choice. _Now_ do you see why I said you didn't want to know?"

Tobias looked around hoping that there would be someone else, that he wouldn't be alone with her. There was no one. They had reached the third level, a place declared off-limits when the Sons of Methalas had started growing.

He slowly reached for the bolter that he still held.

Arael blurred, and he felt the terrible claws at his throat. "Injured I may be. Unobservant I am not," she snarled. "Drop it."

He obeyed.

"Inside."

He moved towards the indicated doorway, the constant pricking of the claws on the back of his neck taking away all hope of resistance. "You were keen for me to be gone a moment ago," he commented.

"A moment ago you had not uncovered my secrets." Arael sighed. "There are two paths from here. I kill you now… or I explain why you shouldn't reveal me."

He sat down on a chair. The habitation was distinctly bare, with equipment lying on every available surface. "Does the explanation involve pain?" he asked warily.

She chuckled, and raised a hand to the helmet – a hand, he noticed, that looked perfectly normal, with no sign of the claws. A glove, maybe?

"Of course not. Not all heretics are sadistic barbarians." The helmet came off. The face underneath was a young one, but hard. It was the face of someone who has seen too much. A bionic plate of bare metal dominated the left side, while a bionic eye nestled in the socket on that side. "You have a choice." The voice was tired, but lively in a sharp contrast to the monotonic synthesiser. "You can choose death, which I will administer quickly and painlessly. Or you can hear my long, sad tale and risk the wrath of the Inquisition, who will not be so kind when it comes to your fate. Of that I can assure you."

"Your story? What is there to know? We were briefed about you a while ago. Extremely dangerous daemon worshipper."

This time she threw her head back and laughed properly. "Is _that_ what they say? The nerve of the great and mighty Inquisition never fails to amaze me. I don't _worship_ daemons… they're scum to be eradicated. I don't see why they continue the charade, given that over the last five years I've eliminated more cults than their best. But no… they live in a world of black and white."

Tobias hadn't lied about curiosity being the bane of Sevrenians. "So… if that's wrong…"

She looked him in the eye while picking up a medikit to tend to the gash. "Unfair choice, given your tendencies. I'll take that as a choice of damnation over death…"

He shook his head. "I am the Emperor's loyal servant. Nothing you say can change that."

"That's not the damnation." She paused. "I was born on Necromunda thirty-five years ago. Tough place. Aside from planets like Catachan and Cadia, where they live and breathe military training, life on Necromunda is one of the best ways to learn how to survive the galaxy's mean streets. I joined the Arbites when I was eighteen. Thought that it was a good way to get ahead of the game. The Necromundan Enforcers are busy all day long with the gang wars, but cults are surprisingly rare. Which was why the Devoted came as a shock to all…"

_

* * *

Welcome to my little side-project from Empires Collide and my various other big stories. Something that I've been working on for a little while, but only just got that chance to put together properly… so whaddaya think? _


	2. Chapter 2

Inquisitor Phyron looked up from the report, and glared at the unfortunate Enforcer standing before him. "A poor display," he commented evenly. "Considering the street experience of most Enforcer units in this area, I'm shocked that this cult has caught you off-guard."

The Adeptus Arbites Captain flinched. "My lord, we're used to dealing with the underhive gangs. They're rough, tough and unpleasant, but they're cowards at heart. Uncontrolled bloodlust isn't our area."

"So the Necromundan Enforcers are all show?" Phyron sneered. "Dismissed, Captain. The Inquisition will deal with this, seeing as you are clearly incapable of doing so."

The other looked like he was about to snap a response, then remembered who he was talking to. He swallowed, saluted, and left.

The men of Enforcer unit 7954-5 Alpha filed out after him, reprimanded and sullen. The three survivors of 7954-5 Beta moved to follow.

"Not you," said Phyron, already looking down at the report again. "You did a much better job against these heretics than your colleagues."

Interrogator Krata, Phyron's acolyte, closed the door silently as the three looked at each other in mild surprise.

Sergeant Cardrin, the most senior survivor, spoke up. "My lord? Beta unit took considerably more casualties than Alpha. Surely that…"

Phyron gestured irritably. "None of that, Arbites. I can read between the lines of your report; Alpha took to its heels and ran, your unit tried to hold the cultists to cover their retreat. Quite successfully, too, considering that you were funnelled into enemy territory. That's what I'm interested in." The Inquisitor put down the report and scrutinised the three.

Cardrin was well-built, and cut an imposing figure in his carapace armour. The shotgun strapped to his back had had several modifications to it, judging by the odd barrel shape and long grip, while the standard issue shock maul looked worn from long use. An old veteran of the underhive, it would seem.

The second figure, Corporal Ephi, was the opposite. Thin to the point of being skeletal and carrying what looked like a cameleoline cloak over his shoulder, he had a wary look to his movements. Either a rookie who had learned some of the ropes or a veteran with a case of extreme paranoia.

The third caught Phyron's eye. Corporal Verekan. Apart from the easy way that she carried the shoulder-slung lasrifle, there was a faint suggestion of being somehow _more_ than her companions.

Worth keeping an eye on, he decided. He was not psychic himself, but had enough experience with it as an operative of the Ordo Malleus to have suspicions.

"My stormtroopers and I will be heading into the underhive shortly," he said. "You will be in the lead, to provide guidance through terrain. Do you know how many heretics there are?"

Cardrin glanced at Ephi, who twitched uncomfortably and said, "We were attacked by about thirty, sir. Assuming that they're locals and know something about how to handle themselves among the gangs, I'd guess triple that in total."

Paranoid veteran, decided Phyron. "We're short on time," he said out loud. "Get what equipment you need together, and join up with the stormtroopers in the barracks. We move out in ten minutes."

The three saluted and left. Phyron glanced up at Krata, who nodded slowly. "Your opinion?" the Inquisitor asked.

"Of what? The cult, or the girl?" Krata replied sardonically. "The cult should prove to be little problem, unless they're smarter than they look. It was only the call from the Arbites that attracted our attention while we were in the system – the astropaths would know if there were any major fluctuations in the warp. As for the girl… latency is unlikely."

"But a possibility, you think?" pressed Phyron. "The Black Ships very seldom miss latent psykers."

Krata hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "But not unheard of. It is theorised that unusual warp activity in an area can stimulate psychic ability from undetectable to merely innocuous. This cult could have caused that. After all, true, fully-fledged cults are rare on Necromunda."

"So what would you recommend?"

Krata paused again, knowing he was being tested. "Keep her under surveillance during the upcoming mission. Place her near you in the attack group, and if she displays no psychic tendencies, have the astropaths analyse her afterwards."

Phyron nodded, satisfied. "You are a good student, Krata. Come, time to check on the stormtroopers."

* * *

The last cultist dropped as Phyron neatly shot him with the ornate bolt pistol. 

The mixture of Arbites and Inquisitorial Stormtroopers cautiously emerged from their locations of cover. The heretics were poorly armed and had little skill, but pure bloodlust and the unholy fury of their daemon masters made them a dangerous opponent. Thirty bodies were scattered around the scrapyard that was the centrepoint of the Devoted's territory, with even numbers of Imperials and traitors.

"Spread out!" Phyron barked. Now was the time to strike, while the cultists were reeling from the force of the attack. With any luck, the remainder would be easy prey.

Not that Inquisitors liked to leave anything to luck.

A dozen Arbites and Stormtroopers moved in behind him, ready for his leadership. Krata moved over to join him as well. The other troops moved off to obey his orders, sporadic bursts of gunfire suggesting that some were already engaging more of the cultists.

"This way," ordered Phyron, indicating a dilapidated tower on the edge of the scrapyard. Most of the broken equipment and rusted metal had been cleared away from surrounding buildings, but the tower was more or less cut off. Inquisitorial instincts had kicked in with an odd wrenching feeling in his stomach that screamed of Chaos.

Although the debris looked intimidating, it was actually fairly easy to climb over. The irregular clanking of metal grinding against metal was the only sound to break the stillness, even the sound of combat elsewhere falling silent.

It was at about that moment that Phyron realised that he had underestimated his opponents.

The Devoted had been unimpressive so far. No special equipment to suggest important members, no tactical ingenuity, only raw aggression. But there had been something that didn't quite fit in, little details that jarred. Sudden raids on places where they shouldn't have been able to get to without notice. The subtlety of hiding their central base in the middle of gang-infested territory. Concealing the real heart in a building that was apparently unused.

These added together to mean that Phyron was not entirely off-guard when one of the Arbites gave a horrified, panicked yell of warning.

Three monstrous shapes leered down at them from windows several stories up in the tower. They looked a little like starving hunting dogs combined with bats, long leathery wings folded but visible. They seemed somehow indistinct, as though parts of them were not entirely there. Most of all, it was the sudden severe increase in the wrenching in his stomach that told him what they were.

Furies. Daemons of Chaos Undivided, flying horrors that were weaker than most of their kind, but still more than a match for a normal human.

"For the Emperor!" he roared. Weapons were raised to focus on the daemons, who shrieked in apparent pleasure. They dived through the windows, spreading their wings and wheeling above the Imperials below.

More appeared, diving through the gaps. Six, nine, eleven, fifteen, and then twenty of the creatures were screeching and spinning to avoid the blasts of hellgun and lasrifle fire from below. Then, as one, they dived.

Ten were ripped apart by gunfire, but the remainder made it to ground level, claws and teeth scything. Phyron ducked as one Fury swooped over his head and sliced another apart with his power sword, then spun around to see a third winged monster land on a Stormtrooper and tear out the man's organs from his still-living flesh. He shot it apart as it screamed in triumph.

But still they came, and the screams of the dying and wounded echoed across the scrapyard. Despite their losses, the Furies were winning, rifle butts and combat blades no match for lethal speed and razor-sharp claws. To make matters worse, Phyron could catch glimpses of more moving objects in the air above.

"Into the tower!" he shouted. "Into the tower!"

The men did not need a second order. Many more died trying to escape their attackers, but Phyron managed to get through the rusted, punctured doors intact.

Several men followed, with horrific screeches suggesting that the Furies were right behind. They lined up, aimed at the doors, and fired.

Lesser daemons in general are not very bright, and Furies are less intelligent than most. In flashes of brimstone and fluorescent gore, all but two were killed as they tried to follow their prey.

The two survivors ignored the fate of their kin and lunged. Two more Stormtroopers were ripped apart before they were finished off.

Phyron forced himself to slow his breathing, and did a head-count. Krata was there, bleeding from a gash on his arm. Three Stormtroopers, two of them with minor injuries. And Verekan. She had done well to survive such an intense assault.

"There are more daemons, master," panted Krata. "I can sense them. There must be some powerful warp-artifact nearby for so many to be in the material world."

Phyron nodded, trusting to the Interrogator's psychic ability. "Then we need to keep moving. Stay alert."

_No need, Inquisitor…_

The Stormtroopers spun, looking for a target, but Phyron didn't bother. A voice in their heads like that could only mean something incorporeal. "Show yourself, daemon."

_Now why would I do a thing like that?_ The voice laughed, the seductive, maddening laugh of Chaos. _So devoted to the corpse-emperor, so misguided… so weak…_

Phyron made a set of rapid hand-gestures, and the Stormtroopers moved to cover the double-doors at the end of the hall. "Be silent, spawn. You have nothing to say that could be of interest."

_Oh really…_

Phyron gestured again, and one of the Stormtroopers kicked open the door. Instantly, all six people doubled over, retching.

The room beyond would have been dark but for the crystal. It was a dark, sickly green and stood three foot tall. Silvery shapes streaked across the verdigris clouds. The stench of death and decay washed over them from the artefact, and most of all the sickening taint of Chaos tore into them.

This was the heart of the cult. Five shapes were visible in the pale light. Four were prostrated before the crystal, chanting in a language that hurt the ears. The fifth, a thin, emaciated old man stood over the crystal, clutching something that dripped viscous red fluid. As Phyron's eyes grew used to the darkness, he saw a mutilated corpse with a hollow where the heart should be next to the crystal.

_Now, my children, kill them! Make them your next sacrifices, and you will be richly rewarded!_

The four worshippers rose to their feet awkwardly. The six Imperials blasted at them, but the bolts and energy simply fizzled out before they reached the men.

Time slowed, and Phyron saw details of the four. The first wore tattered, gold-trimmed armour covered in skull motifs, and a crude, angular symbol like two 'E's back to back was carved into his chest. The second was enormously fat, and the green, rotting flesh was crawling with flies and maggots. A triple-pointed star with three circles between the points could be seen on his chest by the way that the maggots congregated. The third pulsed with blue-purple energy, and had a form that seemed to constantly shift from one shape to another, while a twisted crescent-moon shape broken by a circle was sketched in the air around his form. The fourth had incredibly pale skin and a sickeningly elegant form, marred only by the scar that seemed like a twisted female symbol.

One for each of the Chaos gods. Khorne, Nurgle, Tzeentch and Slaanesh.

With terrifying speed, the cultists charged. The Stormtroopers were torn to shreds by blades that had appeared in the avatars' hands, and then the abominations were moving for the three remaining Imperials.

Phyron barely had time to raise his power sword to block a vicious overhead cut by the Khorne avatar. The cultist's strength was extraordinary, and the Inquisitor was forced to disengage. Again the creature hacked down, and this time Phyron dodged the blow from the jet black sword. He raised the bolt pistol and fired a burst, hoping that whatever protection the thing had did not apply this close. Two shots disintegrated millimetres from the avatar's eyes, and the pistol clicked to indicate its emptiness.

In desperation, Phyron threw the useless weapon at the avatar as it reared up for another slash. It connected with a solid thunk, and the monster paused for just long enough for the Inquisitor to decapitate it with a blow from the power sword.

The Nurgle avatar was already down, almost hacked in two by Krata, who now faced the Tzeentch avatar. Verekan was trading blows with the Slaaneshi one with a power maul. As he watched, deciding who needed aid the most, she knocked the elegant katanas the heretic was wielding aside and crushed its skull with one neat motion.

Phyron turned towards Krata and began to run as the Interrogator traded blows with the oddly shifting monster. Power axe met sickle, and sparks flew. Then, too fast for him to see, the avatar swept the axe aside and lunged. Constantly reforming fingers closed on the young man's neck and squeezed.

Phyron lunged, and sent his sword through the avatar's heart. It released its prey and collapsed, twitching. The Inquisitor looked up, and stared in horror.

The flesh where the creature's fingers had touched was visibly twisting and mutating. Krata desperately clutched at his throat as though being strangled, and the purple stain spread to his hands. They fell limp, and then sprouted out, forming suckers and writhing like worms.

The stain spread out, and the Interrogator's chest armour was ripped open, a third arm sprouting, mouths and teeth gaping from the palm of the clawed hand at the end. Krata gave Phyron a desperate, pleading look.

The power sword flashed, and the Interrogator's decapitated body fell to the floor, the mutations ceasing as the life left him.

"Very good, very good…"

Phyron's gaze snapped up. It was the same voice that had been in his head before, but now made tangible.

The fifth figure in the crystal room had not moved, but now it advanced, clapping slowly. "Five mighty sacrifices," it continued. "Enough to give me form. Enough to give me… POWER!"

The old man's flesh rippled unpleasantly, and exploded outwards. Phyron knew at that moment what they faced, and realised that they had a matter of seconds to act before the Greater Daemon fully materialised. But somehow, despite his training, the horrific sight kept him frozen to the spot.

The entrails slowly reformed, growing against all natural law, and began to form a recognisable shape. Claws and tentacles sprouted outward, and greyish, armoured skin formed over the massive daemon.

"Daemon!" called Verekan.

The half-formed daemon turned, semi-real eyes focusing on the figure. Phyron dragged his gaze towards her as well.

She stood next to the crystal, clearly fighting revulsion from the power of the warp. Her power maul was raised, ready to crash down on the crystal.

Phyron's heart sank. This was clearly a powerful artefact. Brute force would not destroy it, and any attempt to do so would almost certainly be fatal.

The maul crashed down, and there was a blinding golden flash. The crystal shattered, and the daemon screamed. Simultaneously, Phyron felt a wave of psychic power from Verekan.

The materialisation of the daemon went out of control. Half-formed skin and twisted entrails spun and snapped like out-of-control whips, and then the entire mutating form disintegrated into a flash of brimstone.

The overwhelming pressure of Chaos receded, and Phyron abruptly knew that the cult was finished.

"Nice work, corporal," he said slowly.

She smiled. "My name's Arael."

* * *

_After a long delay, a small update! Next stop, planet Clotho, ten years later..._  



	3. Chapter 3

_Ten years later…_

Arael Verekan, Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus, gazed down at the planet below through the window of the Thunderhawk. Her stomach clenched slightly, and not just because of the proximity of the Eye of Terror.

"Charming planet, isn't it?" said Phyron from behind her.

She smiled, momentarily distracted from her anxieties. "I was wondering when you would deign to appear," she said mischievously as she glanced around. "We've been waiting ages, haven't we Skarabian?"

Brother-Captain Skarabian smiled tolerantly. The Grey Knight Terminator had worked with Phyron and his old acolyte for long enough to put up with her whimsical sense of humour. There was a lot of genuine affection between the three, or at least as much affection a Space Marine can really have for a normal human.

"I hope you intend to take a more serious attitude when we arrive on Clotho, my young apprentice," Phyron mock-scolded. "If there is a Greater Daemon set to materialise here, we cannot afford levity."

"Not your apprentice any more," laughed Arael. She abruptly sobered. "But you're right. A new Greater Daemon here could be a major threat."

"That's why we're here," pointed out Skarabian lightly. "The Grey Knights have not yet encountered a lone Greater Daemon that they could not destroy with three squads. The fact that this particular materialisation is not mentioned in any of the Grimoires would indicate that it is not that powerful." He paused. "Though no chances must be taken, of course."

Arael turned away again, looking through the porthole. She bit her lip, and then snatched up her helmet. The menial pilot called back that they were ready to launch, and the lumbering Terminators moved to strap themselves in. She hurriedly followed suit, and sat back in the seat.

She jerked as Phyron gently took her hand. "What?" she barked, coming out more aggressively than intended.

"You're not alone here, Arael," he said softly. "Things haven't changed. We still have all our normal support. Just because this is your first assignment as a full Inquisitor doesn't mean that it will be harder."

Arael scowled at him, but the words eased some of the tension.

"There's a good reason why you were promoted through the ranks so fast. You deserved it," Phyron added.

"A Greater Daemon is not to be sniffed at," she pointed out. "Even the best can fail against such a force."

"You banished one such abomination before you even before you joined me, remember?"

Arael laughed cynically. "That was luck and you know it."

"Every Inquisitor needs luck, young one," said Phyron mildly. The Thunderhawk shuddered, and then shot forwards from the hangar of the Strike Cruiser, two other gunships in close pursuit. "We are trained not to rely on it, but it is a fool who ignores it."

Arael turned away, and sealed her helmet. The silvery-blue carapace armour hissed slightly as it made itself airtight, ready for the hostile surface below.

Yes, perhaps it was no different. She still stood shoulder to shoulder with Phyron, Skarabian and the Grey Knights.

But as the dusty brown surface of Clotho loomed, a nasty feeling that this would not go according to plan rose.

"Remind me, Brother-Captain," she called as the scream of atmosphere friction echoed through the Thunderhawk, "What can we expect to find?"

"Scans indicate that the planet was once inhabited," Skarabian replied. "Several massive ruined cities. The one we're heading for has a massive network of underground catacombs, as the xenos prophecy suggested. The surface itself is a poisonous, arid wasteland that would kill a human in less than an hour, and wouldn't do Space Marines much good either. The catacombs, however, seem to be sealed and kept habitable by a power plant. Beyond that, there are no signs of life."

"Whatever life there was was undoubtedly scoured from the planet during its periods inside the Eye," put in Phyron. "There may be some daemons clinging to existence since it last left, or there may be much more if there is some kind of artefact, as the appearance of a Greater Daemon would suggest."

"Of course, the xenos might have been either mistaken or lying," said Skarabian pointedly. "This might be a trap."

"Which is why we requested not only your Terminators, but two standard squads," replied Phyron equally pointedly.

Arael stayed silent. It was a matter of long debate between the two men about the value of xenos information. While it had undoubtedly been useful in the past, Skarabian disapproved of acting purely on such things as half-translated Eldar doggerel. And in all fairness, he had a point. She knew it, Phyron knew it, but one of the first lessons any Inquisitor learns is not to take chances. Even if it meant relying on potentially heretical sources.

The view through the portholes cleared momentarily from the massive dust clouds that the gunship had been diving through, and the desert below was revealed. She only noticed the difference between sky and ground because the ground was slightly a slightly darker brown.

"ETA thirty seconds," the pilot called.

The Terminators tensed and checked the safeties of their storm bolters. Space Marines, especially Grey Knights, also never take chances.

The dust clouds parted again, and Arael caught a glimpse of the city. It was impressive, lacking the sheer imposing size of a Hive City, but nonetheless conspiring to appear massive. It reminded her faintly of picts of Eldar cities, with tall, thin spires and elegant walkways linking the higher structures. There seemed to be no sharp edges, only gentle curves.

The Thunderhawk touched down, and in a stampede of Tactical Dreadnaught armour, the Grey Knights exited, storm bolters ready and Nemesis Force weapons drawn.

"Clear," voxed Skarabian curtly.

Arael leapt out of the Thunderhawk just after Phyron, the sounds of the other two Thunderhawks almost deafening her despite the helmet's adjustments. As they touched down, Power armoured Grey Knights, some wielding Psycannons and Incinerators, moved out, just as ready as their Terminator kin.

The ramps closed, and the Thunderhawks took off in a scream of engine thrust, heading back into orbit. Low visibility had been decided to be potentially fatal for the gunships if any enemies had appeared.

Phyron checked the datapad he had stashed on the utility pouch of his golden carapace armour. "If the scans were correct, the building that leads down to the catacombs should be nearby."

"Here, sir." A Grey Knight waved them over with his Force Sword, indicating a tall, pyramidal structure that stood out from the rest in its solidity. Either it was made of the same brown stone as the ground, or aeons of dust had painted it that colour, making it hard to get a feeling of its size or shape. "You can almost smell the Chaos emanating from it, Brother-Captain."

Skarabian nodded. "At the ready." The Terminators formed a semi-circle around the massive, sepulchral door, leaving enough gaps in their ranks to allow the Power-armoured troops clear fields of fire. The Brother-Captain glanced at Phyron for confirmation, then prodded the door with his halberd. It boomed dully, then unexpectedly ground open to reveal a large chamber with the same grand scale of building itself.

"Strange," Arael muttered. "Completely different to the rest of the city."

Phyron nodded thoughtfully as the Grey Knights swept in, checking for any possible ambush before waving in the rest of the team. "Based on the way the other buildings were some distance from this one, with no sign of destruction save by time, I suspect this is a far older construct."

"It would certainly appear to be an ancient temple to something," said Skarabian from the other side of the chamber. "Look at this."

The altar was in proportion with the rest of the building, easily five foot tall and ten wide. Arael scrutinised it carefully, but there was no indication of Chaotic symbology. Besides, although the entire building felt corrupt, it was not particularly centred around the altar as one might expect. "Red herring," she opined. "The catacombs are what we're after."

Skarabian seemed doubtful, but he said nothing apart from ordering the search of the building widened. Phyron moved to join the Grey Knights, but Arael stayed at the altar, curiously drawn to a large symbol just visible in the centre of it. The angle was poor, so she scrambled up onto the altar itself.

It was an abstract image of some kind of animal with long claws that fanned out, pointing towards more symbols. She followed the directions, finding more abstract designs. Then she followed the creature's gaze, which was straight up – or rather, out towards the door, given its position. There was a set of levers there, nestled into crevices.

And suddenly the symbols made sense. Instructions for the levers. She quickly called Skarabian, telling him of the discovery, and several Grey Knights cautiously began pulling at the controls.

The altar made a grinding sound, shook, and then split open. Beneath it was a steep set of stairs. Cautiously the group advanced down, leaving one squad at the top just in case.

The stairs seemed to go on for eternity. Arael began counting, but gave up after two hundred. When the end did come, it was so unexpected that she stumbled.

The catacombs were just as dusty brown as the rest of the building. Somewhere along the journey, an airlock of some kind must have occurred, as the air was breathable. No helmets were removed, though. The risks of taking things for granted in what felt like a Chaos stronghold were too great.

"It's a maze," said Skarabian with some distaste, glancing around at the many unmarked exits from the chamber. "Time wasting. There is a definitely a Chaos presence here, the longer it takes to find it, the stronger it can get."

"Agreed," said Phyron. "We should split up. Four teams, lead by myself, Arael, Brother-Captain Skarabian and Justicar Nyrene." The Grey Knights split into four groups quickly, and everyone chose a different tunnel.

Instantly the maze proved that it would not be an easy opponent. Stone blocks sealed almost before they had set out. Arael didn't see the full effects, as the first block had sealed her off from both her Grey Knights and the others.

"Report in," came Skarabian's voice coolly over the vox. Then, a moment later, "Inquisitor Verekan? Status?"

"I'm uninjured. I'll move out, we'll meet up somewhere. Getting through these barriers would take too much effort. I think this is a test of some kind."

There was silence for a while, perhaps as Phyron and Skarabian discussed it. Then Phyron's voice came. "Copy that, Arael, but be careful. Keep an open vox channel at all times. I don't trust this maze."

Arael thought about making a snide remark about how trustworthy it had been so far, then decided against it. Such banter was all very well under normal circumstances, but the truth was that if more of these barriers kept activating, they could all be in trouble. So she just gave a curt acknowledgement, and set off.

Nothing more occurred. The tunnels were distinctly monotonous, with no reference points or decoration at all. Just an endless square archway, branching out occasionally. Sometimes there would be an actual junction room, where she would report in and check which direction would be best.

After the fifth junction, Phyron announced that, barring accidents, there was a straight pathway that would allow them to meet up. Arael hurried along it, barely noticing the next junction room until she was inside it.

With a massive crash, the doorway she had just walked through sealed, another huge block of stone falling from a hidden crevice.

As she was congratulating herself on getting past the block, the other two doorways sealed similarly.

"I think I just walked into a trap," she voxed. "I'm sealed inside one of the junctions."

"Copy, Inquisitor," said Skarabian. "We're on our way. Stand by, we'll break through this one."

She relaxed slightly, and looked around the room. It was identical to the other junction rooms, dusty brown rough stone walls, square archways on three walls.

She felt her eyes drawn to the fourth wall, the one without a doorway.

The wall groaned, and split down the middle. The stone slid apart, revealing the jet black metal beneath.

The metal unfolded as though in slow motion. Long arms like mechadendrites, tipped with powerful grasping claws extended towards her, while shorter ones armed with small blades and pincers raised outwards to form a hollow, encircled by writhing metal.

A hollow just the right size for a human body.

Arael realised with a slow horror what was going to happen, and backed away, drawing her weapons.

As though attracted by the motion, the mechadendrites lunged forward in the blink of an eye, easily smashing aside her sword and grasping her limbs. She fought, but they were terrifyingly strong.

Terror took hold, and she screamed. During her time as an Interrogator, she had come to know in intimate detail how the human body worked and how it could be manipulated, and the threat of death from what looked increasingly like an execution servitor tore through her.

Someone was calling her name over the vox, but then a mechadendrite reached out and tore off her helmet, destroying the fragile comms device.

The device hummed thoughtfully, then long restraints sealed her into the crevice. Cutting tools whined into action, and sliced into the carapace armour along her arms, peeling it back and baring the skin below. Then, in a spray of blood, they went deeper.

The pain was bad, but not yet unbearable. Until grasping arms moved in, and began peeling skin and flesh back, opening up her arms to reveal the bone.

What felt like white-hot metal was placed into the wounds. She couldn't see, the haze of pain was too bad, but through it she could feel the flesh being returned to cover the bone, skin moving back over, sealing up…

Needles began punching into her side, her neck, her skull… and as she blacked out, she saw the door explode inwards, and the figure of Phyron bursting in…


	4. Chapter 4

Arael dreamed.

She was back on Necromunda. In the old Arbites uniform, patrolling through the sewers. She smiled, recognising the area. Nearly the end of the patrol route. It would be good to get out of the stink.

There was a squelch from behind her, and she glanced back, raising her lasrifle… except she didn't have one. She fumbled for her other weapons, but they were gone too.

She saw the shadow before the owner. Long fanned claws, stretching out and pointing from an animalistic body… except it wasn't animalistic, it was a human, so hunched over that it was almost bent double. The symbol from the altar.

Terror seized her, and she ran. It followed. Somehow she knew that once she was out of the sewers, she was safe.

But they didn't end. And however fast she ran, the creature was always behind.

She looked back again, saw that it was still gaining but around a corner, still only visible as a shadow.

Arael turned back to continue running, and screamed as she ran into a nightmare construct of metal, arms reaching out, claws raised to slice into her arms again…

Except it wasn't just doing that. The blades and saws tore into her, shredding the uniform, ripping open her flesh, baring her skeleton and peeling away flesh until the organs could be seen beating. She screamed in agony, but still felt and saw everything, saw her pursuer prowl into view. A horrific blend of metal and writhing flesh that wasn't even vaguely human, was just a sick copy of one.

The claws reached out, touched her exposed heart…

She woke screaming.

"Inquisitor? Inquisitor, please relax." The soothing voice made her relax, gasp for air, open her eyes.

She was back on the _Imperial Throne_. In the medical bay. Several chirurgeons and hospitaliers drifted around her and the few other patients, mostly careless ratings and other victims of accidents.

"You're awake." It was another voice, and she turned to focus on the owner, smiling as she recognised the Brother-Captain.

"So it would seem." She tried to stretch, and found restraints on her limbs.

"A precaution," said Skarabian quietly. "We have no idea what the device did to you. Perhaps if you tell me what you remember…"

She nodded. It might be cramping her muscles, but it was a necessary evil. Then, in the clipped and precise way she had been trained, she explained what she had been able to tell of the device's activities. "It certainly felt like it put something inside my arms, but the pain was strong enough at that point…" she finished.

"We couldn't find any foreign objects inside you, Inquisitor." One of the hospitaliers, who had been quietly taking notes, spoke up. "There are some anomalies, but considering the trauma to your body, it's only to be expected."

"My best guess is that the device was unable to complete its task," said Skarabian. "When Inquisitor Phyron destroyed it, the energy release certainly suggested that it was just getting started."

"Where is he now?" asked Arael. "Continuing with the search?"

"Our exploration of the catacombs is on hold for the moment. The engineers are rigging some gun servitors with melta weapons to speed our advance through the blocks. As for Phyron…" Skarabian removed his helmet, and gave her a sorrowful expression. "He was killed by the feedback from the device while rescuing you."

Arael lay back, closing her eyes. Phyron dead. Her mentor of ten years, and one of her closest friends… gone. She was now in command of the expedition. On the edge of the Eye, with a race against time to destroy a Greater Daemon. "If you could not find any foreign matter in me, why am I being restrained like this? There must be some reason for concern…"

Skarabian looked at her. There was no meaning in the look, it was just a look. Realising that she would have to do something to get an answer, she felt through herself… and suddenly felt nauseous. The feeling was gone almost as quickly as it came, but she recognised it. Chaos.

"You feel it too, then," said Skarabian. "You've been corrupted somehow. But we've no idea how. You're not daemonically possessed, we ran all the tests for that. I do not believe that you were willingly rendered impure, and apart from that faint feeling, there is no sign of anything. But now that you're recovered, medically at least, you're being transferred to the holding cells."

"No chances," she agreed dully.

Skarabian put his helmet back on, and her restraints were removed. The journey to the holding cells went in a blur, her focus inward. She only woke from her reverie with the clang of the metal sealing behind her.

How could this be happening? For ten years, her success rate at Phyron's side had been perfect. Now, Phyron was dead, and she was in danger of being executed for contamination.

Which was right, of course. She of all people knew that the Inquisition could afford to take no chances. There were thousands like her in the galaxy, but every victory against Chaos counted.

Until Chaos _ruled_ there could be no surrender. The _Dark Gods_ _had to have their victory_.

She froze, replaying her last thoughts in her mind. Except they weren't hers, they couldn't be.

_No no no… you're not supposed to resist!_

That wasn't me. It was something else. Oh Golden Throne… Skarabian was wrong, I am possessed…

The feeling of nausea rose again, much stronger. But there was frustration there as well. She fought it with every bit of her strength, calling on all the iron will necessary for a psyker. The daemon screamed in her mind, and then unexpectedly gave up.

_You win, Arael Verekan._

Get_out_ of me!

_I can't. I'm in your blood, Arael. Not psychically possessing you, _physically_ doing so. We're bound forever._

Then you die very soon. Because I'd rather experience the agony of purgation than be contaminated like this!

_Why? The implanter__ failed. What was meant to give me complete control instead made me your slave. With my strength, imagine what could be done…_

Because… why am I even speaking to you? You an enemy of mankind. Your kind would annihilate all that we stand for.

_Perhaps. But I'm in no position to do so. Do you know how long I was trapped down there, waiting? Nearly twenty thousand years. That wasn't fun. The last time I was free, your kind was roaming the stars freely. Klorgrind taunted me about all that I missed for a long time. All that I _will_ miss._

Be quiet, daemon! When I am called for, I shall… Klorgrind? Arael's curiosity got the better of her. Besides, the name had curious echoes with her… like it meant something…

_Klorgrind. A Greater Daemon, something of a loner. He devotes himself to none of the Dark Gods in particular, but plays his own game. Something of a rarity, I think you'll agree. He will manifest here soon._ The daemon spoke teasingly, drawing her in. _Interested now?_

How soon? she demanded. Daemonic information was suspect in the extreme, but anything was worth following up… if she could just complete her last mission, maybe she could accept the role fate had cast her.

_Soon__. Not too soon that you can't stop it. But your soldiers seek in the wrong place. They will never find him before he manifests and sets his plans in motion._

She growled with frustration, then stopped in sudden shock. Even listening to the daemon amounted to heresy. Yet she was actually believing it. Angrily she pushed the unwanted contact away, reciting prayers to the God-Emperor.

_Oh, so you're happy for Klorgrind to manifest? You're happy for your friend to have died in vain? His sacrifice gifted you all the power of the process with none of the designed flaws. It is almost as though the Lord of Fate gifted you the prize of Klorgrind's rebuttal. Surely you won't throw that away and dishonour your comrade…_

It's only power if I wish to use it. Brother-Captain Skarabian will deal with Klorgrind. I'm not giving you a chance to get out of here.

_Your 'Brother-Captain' doesn't know I'm here. What do you fear? That you will be discovered, that you will be shown up as a traitorous heretic? All you need do is escape, destroy Klorgrind, and all will be forgiven…_

LEAVE ME ALONE!

The daemon obediently fell silent, and even the nausea faded. Leaving Arael to her thoughts.

Horribly, she couldn't help feeling that the abomination had a point. Phyron had died to get her out of there. She had to honour his memory by continuing the mission.

And it certainly didn't feel like the daemon was truly possessing her. There was no indication that it could take control, otherwise surely it would have done. All the daemonic lore she had been taught as an agent of the Ordo Malleus told her that daemons were untrustworthy and cunning, but also lacked any kind of subtlety. If they had an opening, they would exploit it.

Slowly she stood, and banged on the cell door. "I need to contact Brother-Captain Skarabian! It's urgent!"

She ignored the triumph of the entity that was somehow sharing her body. A moment later, the door ground open, the surroundings within having been checked, a mob of gun and combat servitors covering the entrance. A wary looking stormtrooper peered in, hellgun half-raised.

"I need to contact Brother-Captain Skarabian. His troops are looking in the wrong place. I've realised where the Greater Daemon will appear."

The stormtrooper nodded, then vanished. The servitors watched her with all of their semi-mechanical vigilance, the faint clicking of their mechanisms just audible over the ever-present rumble of the ship itself.

Where? It was a blunt question, with no politeness of any kind. The daemon had information, and she wanted it.

_I don't know__ exactly. I was stuck in that machine, remember? But I could show you if we were there…_

She almost baulked at the idea, but she had come too far now. Besides, she would be in the company of Grey Knights… if the daemon tried anything, it would be cut down quickly.

"I'm sorry, Inquisitor, but we can't contact him." The Stormtrooper had returned. "The catacombs are blocking transmissions."

"Then I'll have to go down there. Arrange transport. With a suitable escort, of course."

The stormtrooper shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that. You're deemed a security risk and possible moral threat. I'm not to let you out of this room, or obey any orders you give."

_Run. You know that he'll make a mistake. Then you can go. If you've already resigned yourself to death, you might as well try to die doing something worthwhile._

Arael nodded regretfully. "I would appreciate it if you could inform me when he comes back into contact." She turned away, heard the door begin to grind shut, the servitors relax… and lashed out, leaping out of the cell.

The servitors were quick, but somehow she was faster. Bolts and energy fire exploded around her, but each was predicted and avoided. The outer door began to snap shut, but again she was too fast, and blurred through it. It sealed, and she paused, staring at herself.

Did you do that?

_Mmmhmmm… first alteration. Enhanced reflexes._

Arael growled at the thing. Don't you _dare_ touch my body. I'm not going to let you corrupt me any more than your mere presence has done.

The daemon said nothing, and she ran along the corridors, the alarm screaming. She ran to a nearby control panel, and entered an access code. It hesitated, then accepted the Inquisitorial override, switching off the alarm and lockdown.

The journey to the shuttlebay was long and hard, constantly dodging armed patrols and having to use all her knowledge of the _Imperial Throne_ to stay one step ahead of the pursuit. It was only as she was looking at the bay, and the assorted craft in the Strike Cruiser's hangar, that she stopped and realised what she had done.

Where is the Daemon manifesting?

There was no response.

Answer me!

_Quite a few systems away_ the daemon admitted. _In several weeks time._

She crumpled without realising it, sitting down hard and staring out at the planet below. You tricked me.

_I have no wish to die. That seemed like the only way to get you out of the cell. For better or for worse, we're soulbonded. If you die, I cease to exist. Twenty thousand years was hard to bear, even if it wasn't as painful as being bonded to an inanimate object usually is. Doesn't mean I don't still want to survive._

A Thunderhawk rose up into the bay, and Skarabian and his Terminators disembarked quickly. A stormtrooper hurried over, saying something. Another followed rather more slowly. He appeared to be the guard in the cells.

Skarabian listened impassively, glanced at the culpable trooper, and shot him with his wrist-mounted Storm Bolter. Quickly the Stormtrooper squads in the bay began moving out, some guarding the Thunderhawks, but most watching the entrances.

Arael slowly walked out from her hiding place, arms raised. Skarabian moved stunningly fast, considering the bulk of the Terminator armour, and the Nemesis Force halberd was brought to rest against her throat.

"Brother-Captain Skarabian," she said quietly. "By the authority of the God-Emperor of mankind, and His holy Inquisition, I order you to take me into custody…"

_No! Don't you see, that won't do any good, it'll just –_

"…to be taken to a suitable court for trial on charges of Heresy. I listened to the daemon, and I should have known better."

_-__ please, Arael, we can work out something, if only you would see what we would be capable of, the power of Chaos, if only -_

Skarabian nodded slowly. "I'm sorry, Arael. This is a poor way for a friendship to end."

_- just give me a chance, surely you realise what you can do with me at your side, just don't give in -_

The world went black as the flat of the halberd hit her, sending her into merciful unconsciousness.

* * *

After a long delay, I'm back! Sort of. Updates for Empires Collide may be forthcoming, though the battle sequence is being problematic... for the moment, I hope you enjoy what I can do of RtD... 


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